


Black Jean Baby

by otherwiseestella



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Eggsy wears extremely tight jeans, Established Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Rutting, Sex, Shameless Smut, Sunday morning sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-27 15:39:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19015858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwiseestella/pseuds/otherwiseestella
Summary: Eggsy comes down the stairs in trousers so tight that Harry can't work out how he got them on, and Sunday morning plans go to hell in a handcart.* * *It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the way Eggsy dresses, most of the time. He looks good in whatever it is he puts on – not that Harry is without bias – but from a light Glen Check to chinos and boat shoes, via every Jeremy Scott creation in Christendom  – Eggsy’s a sharp dresser, always looks the part.Harry’s never seen these before, though, and aside from the fact he’s got no idea where Eggsy’s been hiding them, he can’t work out how he got them on. They’re black, skintight, and absolutely look like they’ve been painted on by an exceptionally skilled and lusty painter.‘Are those tights?’ slips from his lips before he has a chance to stop himself, and Eggsy stills on the stairs immediately, cocks his head to look at Harry.* * *





	Black Jean Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Please do leave any comments, because I feast on them as if they were tiny delicious snacks. xx
> 
> * * *  
> I have to thank LelithSugar for the trouser-related inspiration, and an excellent line of dialogue. You can see a picture of the trousers that caused all the trouble here [https://twitter.com/justegerton/status/1133684907220316160]

‘Harry, have you seen JB’s little jacket? Swear I left it in the spare room, but…’ Eggsy’s nipping down the stairs, bag slung over his shoulder, and as he comes round the corner Harry actually does a double-take.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the way Eggsy dresses, most of the time. He looks good in whatever it is he puts on – not that Harry is without bias – but from a light Glen Check to chinos and boat shoes, via every Jeremy Scott creation in Christendom and a great many peaked caps with what he assumes are brand logos on them – Eggsy’s a sharp dresser, always looks the part, succeeds in making Harry’s mouth water, his pulse jump just slightly, when he watches him dress in the mornings.

Harry’s never seen these before, though, and aside from the fact he’s got no idea where he’s been hiding them, he can’t work out how he got them on. They’re black, skin-tight, and absolutely look like they’ve been painted on by an exceptionally skilled and lusty painter.

‘Are those tights?’ slips from his lips before he has a chance to stop himself, and Eggsy stills on the stairs immediately, cocks his head to look at Harry.

‘You what?’ And he must genuinely believe he’s misheard Harry. But he can’t bring himself to repeat it, knows he should paper over this because there’s no way that ‘what are you wearing, young man’ is a conversation he wants to have, it will make him feel five hundred years old, but that’s the way this is heading. 

He should apply the breaks now, and go out to brunch and just pretend that the whole of London isn’t gawking at his boyfriend’s cock, which is outlined through his trousers with such anatomical precision that he’s surprised Eggsy isn’t in physical discomfort.

‘That cannot be comfortable, darling,’ is what he settles on instead, letting his eyes drop to Eggsy’s crotch.

‘Oh these? Nah, they’re stretchy, innit. Ain’t actually as tight as they look, otherwise I reckon I wouldn’t be able to get a full English in.’

And now Harry’s flabbergasted, because he presumed the subtext was amply clear in his comment, but apparently it wasn’t, and now they’re both just loitering in the hall, Eggsy looking at him fondly, but as if he might have a screw loose. 

The grin that Eggsy flashes him quickly puts paid to the idea that he’s been subtle. 

‘You worried everyone’s gonna be looking at the goods? Doubt it, when I’m out with you.’

If Harry pinks, that’s his problem, and if Eggsy thinks flattery can get him everywhere… well usually, it can. But Harry can’t stop looking. He can see which way Eggsy’s dressing – to the right – and then the black stretch material pulls over his thighs as if it might rip, as if any second, if he bends down to pet JB, the trousers might just split, letting everyone in looking distance see his ridiculously gorgeous boyfriend’s ridiculously beautiful legs.

‘Turn around’, he says, and he’s not sure where that came from except he has to – absolutely has to – see Eggsy’s arse in those trousers. If he doesn’t, he might actually die. The arousal washes over him, in a ridiculous wave, and he can’t believe he’s this turned on by a piece of clothing as boring as jeans. If that’s what you can even call them – whatever the technical terminology is – and he worries it might actually be ‘jeggings’ – the effect is indisputable.

And if it is for him, then it probably is for everyone with functioning eyes and a pulse.

‘So you like ‘em then? Want to see the whole show?’ But Eggsy’s grinning, turns around slow, hips swaying in a ludicrous impression of a stripper. Pops a hip once he’s facing away, so his arse is absolutely, undeniably, as on display as it could possibly be, without him removing the trousers, which Harry suspects might actually be impossible.

His arse looks – well. He looks like The Discus Thrower dressed for a night on the pull. Like the Three Muses if they were London-born boys with shit-eating grins. The way the swell of it lifts from the bottom of his thighs, the way he’s all coiled strength with just the tiniest layer of cushioning. The jeans are tight enough that the seam makes a tight line over Eggsy’s arse crack, he realises with a jolt that goes straight to his cock. He can’t be wearing briefs. There aren’t any seam lines. And somehow that’s the worst of it. That’s where his whole body decides he has to have him right there in the hallway on their way out the door. They aren’t trousers at all, really, more of an invitation, and who is Harry to refuse? 

‘Whether I like them is beside the point, really. We aren’t going out like that. We can’t. Horrid boy, you’re going to give someone an aneurism, and I’m not having Sunday morning spoiled by looking after civilians as they faint in the streets.’

Eggsy gives him a searching look. ‘That right? Well then, you’d probably better come over here and try and persuade me to change.’ And he leans against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, legs far enough apart that Harry can see exactly the impact his words have had. Christ, but he can see Eggsy getting hard, the way his cock’s filled out and pushing against the fabric.

And just like that, the atmosphere in the hall is charged, crackling. He feels like the air’s being pulled out his lungs but he walks over, crowds Eggsy against the wall, runs two hands through his air.

‘You’re an absolute menace. Anyone would think you wanted the whole city of London to see you like that.’

‘Yeah, well’, Eggsy’s reaching up, kissing across Harry’s jaw, urgent and clumsy and half-teeth. ‘You got a boyfriend pretty as you, got to let them know what he’s going home to.’

And Harry kisses him, then, revelling as he always does at the slide of Eggsy’s lips against his, all wet slide and warm force. The way his hands come up round Harry’s neck, pull him in even closer. 

It’s then he feels it, the press of Eggsy’s crotch against his own. It’s absolutely sinful, a wickedness so acute he feels his head spin. Through the thin stretchy fabric, he can feel how hard Eggsy is, and how hot. Eggsy lets out a little moan, presses himself right up against Harry and shifts his hips, grinding up against him.

‘Fuckin’ hell, I thought these might get a rise off you, but this is lovely.’

Harry’s too far gone to reply for a second, distracted by the friction of jeans against suit trousers, off Eggsy’s hardness against his thigh. There’s no finesse, he’s got Eggsy pinned, leaving him only enough space to shift his hips, to grind up against Harry as if they’re in some alley, out behind a club. As if they’ve only just met.

‘You look’, Harry says, his breath catching as he rubs up against Eggsy, the pressure making his cock throb, ‘like an absolute tart.’

‘Yeah, and you like that, don’t you?’ Eggsy shoots back, and Harry can feel the way that’s hit Eggsy, the leap of the pulse and the way he pulls him closer. ‘Admit it, Harry, you’re thinking about me walking down the street, one arm round me, knowing I’m yours, knowing everyone else can look, yeah, but they can’t touch.’

And Harry groans because Eggsy knows exactly what sort of pervert he is, gets it right every time, knows all Harry’s foibles inside out and isn’t afraid of exploiting every last one of them.

And yes, he thinks, as he moves his hands down, slips them round to Eggsy’s arse, feels the way the material hugs it, runs one thumb down the middle, feels Eggsy shiver, he absolutely is an old pervert, but the man wriggling in his arms like a new puppy, rutting up against him like he’s too desperate to even get his jeans off, is the perfect foil to that.

‘I’ve half a mind to take you out anyway, after this. How would you like that, I wonder, everyone looking at you, jeans all grubby.’

It takes Eggsy a second, because he’s too busy kissing Harry’s neck, little nipping bites, and rutting against him like he’s afraid he’ll leave, but Harry hears his breath hitch once he’s caught Harry’s meaning. He wouldn’t do that, obviously, it’s all part of this grubby little teenage encounter they seem to be having, but the threat of it’s enough to make Eggsy moan, to make him bite Harry, hard just under the chin.

‘Fuck, Harry, please… m’not gonna last if you talk like that, fuck fuck fuck.’ He punctuates this with little thrusts, and Harry can feel it – the fabric’s thin enough that he can feel every throb, and when he looks down, the little wet spot that’s formed is so obscene, catching in the light, that he thinks he might lose it right then.

He kisses Eggsy again, feels his hands in Harry’s hair, tugging and urgent and just the right side of stinging. Lets him rut against him as hard as he needs, until they’ve got a rhythm going, pretty and wordless and fast, both far too turned on to bother about it being elegant, drawn out.

He feels the sweat at the back of Eggsy’s neck, the way his breath is coming out in harsh little pants, little half-formed swear words. 

‘That’s it’, he says, quiet in his hear, ‘rub yourself off against me, that’s it, you going to come in those slutty little excuses for trousers for me?’

And that’s it. He feels Eggsy rut against his thigh once, twice more, their rhythm stuttering into jagged thrusts, and then he stills, panting and pink-faced. Harry leans forward, then, slips his thigh fully between Eggsy’s legs and he can feel him coming through the jeans. The fabric is so tight, so unforgiving that as he comes, it’s forced through, and Harry can actually feel it, blossoming wet against his leg as Eggsy moans, goes limp against him. The pleasure of it, the visual as he pulls away and sees two matching wet spots, is so acute that without thinking he starts moving again, pinning Eggsy fully against the wall, taking advantage of his sated spaciness to rub against him, quick and efficient, one hand between his arse and the wall, the other round his neck.

‘Oh you dirty, filthy little tart, making a mess of those idiotic sex trousers. I can’t believe you’ve come in them.’

Which is pot calling the kettle black, because Harry’s about a hair off coming in his own pants like the teenager he most certainly isn’t, but he can’t help it, running the image on a loop in his mind and he’s close, probably digging his fingers in to Eggsy’s arse hard enough to bruise, when Eggsy looks him in the eye and licks his lips.

‘Bet you didn’t know I’ve got like four pairs of these, did you? Means I can get all nice and clean, and still flash my arse about London, wind you up something proper, then if you’re lucky, suck you off in a nice little shady spot on the heath later, yeah?’

And with that, he leans into Harry, kisses him filthy and wet, runs his tongue across Harry’s bottom lip in a way absolutely calculated to make Harry lose his mind.

Harry comes in his pants, the sweet heat of release creeping up on him suddenly, spilling over into a blinding little flash of pleasure that seems to knock all the air out of him and weaken his knees.

‘Fucking hell, Eggsy. My goodness.’ And he leans his forehead against Eggsy’s, gazes into those green eyes deep as wells. Eggsy gazes back, smiling all fondly before his brain catches up to what Harry’s just said.

Doesn’t even give him a second to catch his breath before he’s teasing him. ‘Yeah, cor blimey governor, heavens to Betsy an’ all. Since when does coming in your pants turn you into my Nan?’

Harry leans forward, bites Eggsy’s neck hard enough to make him squeal.

‘Oh be quiet, you awful creature. Go and change into something that spares your decency, please. And my heart.’ And, Harry does not add, give me a second to get my brain back together from where it seems to have fallen out of my ear, please.

‘So you don’t want a blowjob on Hampstead Heath later?’ Eggsy cocks his head.

Harry smiles wide, all dimples and fondness. ‘Eggsy, I doubt you can kneel down in those, now go up and change into something that won’t show dirt at the knee.’

Somehow, Harry knows, they’re going to be late for brunch. In fact, he rather suspects that they might not make it at all.


End file.
